If the devil has his way
by Mikiya2200
Summary: Sam is kidnapped but they get him back and everybody lives happily ever after. Right? - Rated M for some curse words. Set some time before "My bloody Valentine".
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Sam is kidnapped but they get him back and everybody is happy everafter. Right? - My take on how Sam keeps going after everything that has happened to him (from s1-5).  
**Spoiler-warning**: Everything up to and including 5.17.  
**Timeline**: Takes place somewhere before "My bloody Valentine" and "Dark side of the moon".

**A/N:** Okay, so this is it, my "History of Sam Winchester"-story. After endless nights of wonderful discussions with **Ghost4** about how in hell Sam can go on after everything that was done to him since (and even before) his birth I was looking at Sam in MBV and how _strong _he is in that episode. I realized that at some point of his life he must have come to terms with a lot of stuff that has happened to him and I started wondering what might have happened to get him there.

This is what I came up with. I'm so nervous about this story, I almost decided not to post it at all.

Since **Ghost4 **refuses to accept co-author-credits (which she would really, REALLY deserve!!!) I'll simply credit her as my creative consultant, dictionary and _wtf-am-I-going-to-do-with-that-scene_ savoir. Thanks hun, this wouldn't have been written without you at all, it's just as much your story as it is mine!

Beta by **AnickaMarie **who spots every mistake, no matter how much I try to hide them! ;)

Title and quotes taken from **Jon Bon Jovi**'s "_Santa Fe_" from the Blaze of Glory-album.

* * *

**If the devil has his way**

...

_Now I ain't getting into heaven, if the devil has his way..._

...

Sam has been missing for 9 days when they finally find out who has taken him.

This time help comes from the one place Dean would never have turned to; in fact, it's none other than the tricks—_Gabriel_ himself who gives Bobby a phone call and an address. When Bobby asks if this is just another of his sick jokes there is a meaningful pause, then the archangel simply tells him to "get there before they come back" and the line goes dead.

They quickly agree on calling Castiel for help which has Bobby joking about heavenly phone bills in a weak attempt to lighten up the mood. The fifteen seconds it takes to get the angel on the phone and then zap himself to the salvage yard almost seem too long for Dean's frayed nerves; he all but barks the address at him and waits for the familiar feeling of reality shift to hit him.

One torturous second later Dean and Castiel appear in front of an abandoned church near Santa Fe, New Mexico. It's a small building in the middle of a field, surrounded by nothing but grass and flowers as far as the eye can see. It seems too surreal, too peaceful, almost inviting, and that sets Dean's teeth on edge even before he has taken a step inside.

Castiel takes one look at the church and frowns.

"I cannot accompany you inside, this place is warded…" He breaks off, cocks his head to the side and studies something only he can see on the far side of the wall. His hand reaches out toward the worn bricks without touching them and when he speaks his voice sounds genuinely confused, "Against me."

Dean shifts slightly, watching the building, gun grasped tightly in his hand. He is on edge, tense, running on coffee and worry for his brother alone. He hasn't slept for three days, has eaten even less and is just this close to taking someone's head off. He wants nothing more than to go inside, get Sam, and get the hell out of there. And still the quiet words keep him back, send an uneasy feeling down his spine.

"You mean you as in no-angels-allowed-you? Demon magic?"

Castiel seems lost in thought for a moment, then looks up, shaking his head slightly. "No, this is personal, it is against me. They knew I would find this place."

Dean feels his insides twist in alarm. "They? You know who did this?"

The angel nods, takes a step back from the church. "Yes. We have to get Sam out of there and leave. Now."

As usual he doesn't offer any more information and, right now, Dean doesn't really care. He takes a deep breath and then moves cautiously toward the closed door, gun pointed at the handle. He starts moving to the corner to get to the side where there is a small window, but Castiel's urgent voice stops him.

"They are not here; we haven't much time, get him out."

There is no sound, no movement, the place seems completely deserted. Dean eyes his companion warily, then decides that he trusts Castiel to have his back and throws what's left of his caution to the wind.

The door isn't locked, opens easily when he pushes against it. It swings back, revealing wooden pews to either side of the aisle. Some of them are broken, others have been toppled over, only the first two rows seem still intact. A weird smell lingers in the air: a mixture of unfamiliar incenses and burnt candles and something he cannot identify. Light is streaming through the smashed window on the left, illuminating the wall on the opposite side. There is a picture right in the middle of that wall, but he doesn't really pay attention to it, is too busy scanning the room for movement or signs of danger.

What does catch his attention is the devil's trap painted on the floor right behind the door. It seems horribly out of place in this location and his gaze lingers on it, tracing the pattern thoughtfully for a moment. A trap for demons…

He is about to turn back to Castiel when he suddenly notices a huddled figure sitting in the second row, its back to him.

Sam is wearing the same shirt he wore on the day he disappeared, it is dirty, torn at the edges, but there is no blood anywhere, at least not that he can see. He doesn't move but Dean can see his back rising and falling slowly. Sam's head is bowed, strands of stringy, dusty hair falling over his face, hiding it. Dean starts moving toward him before he is even aware of it. When he gets closer he notices that his brother is actually kneeling in the pew, his folded hands resting on the back of the row in front of him. It seems like his body is leaning against the structure as if too weak to support himself, but still he is _alive_ and Dean feels relief rushing through him like a tidal wave. He calls his brother's name while jogging down the aisle.

"Sam!"

Sam lifts his head slowly and blinks at him. His face is a few shades paler than Dean is comfortable with and dust and something else clings to it like a second skin. He seems to have trouble focusing on Dean, keeps blinking as if trying to clear his vision. The moment Dean sees his eyes he knows something is wrong, very wrong; they are red and puffy, _lost_. Sam doesn't meet his gaze for long, drops it almost as soon as their eyes meet, cutting him off.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice is hoarse, low. He sounds confused and surprised, looks behind Dean like he is waiting for someone else to show up. A puzzled frown creases his forehead when nothing happens. "How did you find me?"

This is not exactly what he expects to hear and Dean blinks, slows down to a walk. "I had some help along the way… you okay?"

Sam looks at him for a second, then turns his head to peer over his shoulder at the still open front door. "Castiel?"

He hasn't done a move yet to get to his feet and the apprehension Dean can hear in his voice makes him stop at the beginning of the row. He regards Sam with a questioning look.

"He's waiting outside… You wanna get out here or what?"

Sam hesitates—actually _hesitates_—for a second, then nods slowly. "Okay."

Dean has seen enough, his brother is obviously not okay, not thinking straight, they need to get out of there like yesterday. He watches him closely as Sam slowly (too slowly) pulls himself to his feet. Sam sways slightly for a moment and reaches out to steady himself against the wooden back of the seats. And Dean cannot keep his mouth shut any longer.

"You hurt anywhere, Sam?" He hopes his tone makes it clear that Sam only has to _think_ the word and he will help him stand.

Apparently Sam wants none of that, he shakes his head and lifts a hand to brush some of the dirty strands of hair behind his ear to keep them from falling into his eyes.

"They didn't hurt…" He breaks off, drops his hand and takes a deep breath. "I'm okay, Dean." This time he meets Dean's questioning gaze for a moment, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Let's get out of here, huh?"

To be honest, Sam looks _anything_ but okay or very excited about leaving this place, but at this point Dean is way beyond caring, he just wants out. He doesn't argue, only takes a step back to make room for him. Sam doesn't look at him as he gets out of the row, he sort of shuffles down the aisle. Dean watches him go, tries to remember when the last time was Sam had allowed him to help and is surprised at how long it takes him to answer that.

Sam keeps moving until he reaches the door and then stops so suddenly that Dean almost bumps into him.

"I—uhm, I can't, you—you have to…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, his voice no more than a whisper. A shaky hand points at the devil's trap on the floor.

Dean doesn't get it; he looks at the hand, frowns and moves around to Sam's front, trying to catch his eyes.

"Sam, what, you're not feeling okay?"

Sam's shoulders tremble slightly.

"You have to break the lines, I can't…"

Stunned, Dean looks down at the floor, at the symbols. What he has initially taken for a mere devil's trap turns out to be a variation, designed to trap a _specific_ demon inside. A _demon_ for God's sake, so what the hell…

"They—uhm, they designed it for me, they didn't want me to leave and they didn't want to have to stay all day…"

Although Sam tries to keep any emotion out of his voice Dean knows him well enough to hear the resignation hidden behind the too matter-of-fact tone. He cannot react for a while; his brain is frozen in a _what-the-hell_-loop that leaves him staring dumbly at the white chalk drawing on the floor.

Sam doesn't move, he keeps staring at the floor, offers no further explanation or any reaction at all. It takes Dean a moment to understand that his brother didn't paint the trap as protection against demons –or _a_ demon–but that somebody–_they_– used a _demon_-trap to keep him inside the building. And apparently it seems to work. That's definitely a new one. And it brings back memories of a time he'd rather just forget and never talk about again.

Focus, he needs to focus, they need to get out of there.

Sam is still waiting silently next to him and Dean carefully avoids looking at him as he bends down and wipes some of the chalk away.

The moment he breaks the line Castiel appears in front of the open door.

"Hurry, we need to leave. Now."

Dean nods at him and turns back to his brother, reaching out to grab a hold of Sam's arm to tug him along. He freezes for a second when he finds Sam staring at Castiel with wide eyes. There is no mistaking the pained expression on his face, how he turns even paler and flinches back when the angel looks at him expectantly. Dean grabs Sam's sleeve before his brother can pull away completely and pulls him toward the exit. Whatever has happened between the two of them has to wait until they are safely back at Bobby's place.

Castiel is watching them with his usual non-readable expression and once Dean gets a stumbling, squinting Sam out of the church he feels a warm hand squeeze his shoulder tightly and the familiar feeling of reality shifting all around him envelopes his senses. The last thing he sees are Sam's tired eyes blinking slowly in the sunlight and then they are gone.

*** *** ***

It's been two days since they got his brother back and Dean is ready to climb the walls.

Sam is back. He is fine. Or so he says. Dean begs to differ, Sam is anything but fine. Oh yeah, he's there, with them, he is responsive, he seems to listen, he even tries to eat a little. And that's it.

Sam doesn't talk about what has happened to him, he doesn't do much of anything really. Most of the time he just sleeps. Or pretends to sleep when he notices Dean near the bedroom. It's not that he doesn't need all the rest he can get; he pretty much fainted after Castiel zapped them back to Bobby's place. And Dean gets that, he really does, being beamed around the globe can get a little on your stomach. He has had more than his fair share of how your world doesn't stop turning for hours after that and he doesn't blame his brother (much) for the girly groan a second before Sam's legs gave out.

No, he is perfectly…uhm…_okay _with Sam being as out of it as he is right now. After all, judging from the few details he managed to squeeze out of him while dragging his sorry ass to bed it seems like a miracle his brother had been coherent at all. Or able to stand on his feet. Or recognize them.

Problem is, if what he has told them is true Sam shouldn't be able to do anything at all.

Nine days.

His brother went _without_ food or water for _nine_ friggin' days. That is not humanly possible; dehydration sets in after four days, five at the latest. Sam certainly looks like they put him through the wringer on a daily basis, but he is not breathing his final breath and they didn't need to get him to the hospital. That's saying _something_, Dean just isn't sure what. Sam _seems_ fine. Not at his best and definitely not fit enough to go on a hunt but he doesn't seem to be in any discomfort.

And still, his brother instincts set of an overwhelming alarm whenever he looks at Sam, but with the way things are between them lately he doesn't even know if he is imagining things.

His captors—angels, Sam was kidnapped by _angels_—didn't tell Sam why they took him, at least that's what Dean put together from the few things his brother told them. He knows "they didn't hurt me, don't worry, Dean," Sam was kept at the church for the entire time he was missing (he doesn't remember being in any other place), and that _whatever_ they did to him is something Sam doesn't seem to be able to recover from.

Castiel hasn't been helpful either; he didn't even come back to Bobby's with them, simply dropped them in the living room via angel express and disappeared. Dean tries calling him at regular intervals but so far there's nothing.

Bobby tells him to leave Sam alone for a day or two, that maybe he just needs some time to adjust, to sort it out. And he has no problem with that, none at all. Sam can have his time off; he can stay in his room sleeping it off or do whatever he needs to do to get better.

As long as Sam is talking to them once he gets his head back in the game. Dean can and will wait for as long as he has to.

*** *** ***

Dean is still waiting when, only 24 hours later, Sam disappears again.

*** *** ***


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Okay, in my part of the universe HOTG hasn't happened (yet?).

After watching the last episodes of this season and then, finally, PONR I really think something like this chapter must have happened to Sam at some point of the story. Everything you are about to read has been planned weeks before PONR and after watching it I was really surprised at how well this story fits into the current story-line. To cut a long introduction short: I wanted to give Sam a chance to finally get some of his issues off his chest and since Dean was too caught up in his own "epic man-pain" (god, I love that term!) to be of much use I found someone else.

Some of these parts... well, a lot of these parts actually, may be hard to read, may even sound (too) cruel but please trust me, it will finally make sense.

This is dedicated to one of the most awesome characters that ever showed up on the show AND to my co-author (there, I said it!!! Hehehe!)** Ghost4 **who not only betaed this beast but also held my hand and kept me going whenever I just wanted to quit. Thanks, hun, you have no idea how much your help is appreciated and how much I LOVE our chats! You are still one of the main reasons I'm still watching this show.

**Summary:** Have you ever wondered how Sam went from "I killed Jessica" (s1) to "we didn't exactly pull the trigger" (5.18)? Well, this is my attempt at how he could finally have got over it.

Title and quote taken from **Jon Bon Jovi**'s "Santa Fe" from the Blaze of Glory album.

* * *

**If the devil has his way**

...**  
**

_Once I was promised absolution__,  
there's only one solution for my sins;  
you gotta face your ghosts and know with no illusions,  
that only one of you is going home again._

_...  
_

"Hey, yo, Sam, long time no see."

The deceptively cheery voice literally comes out of nowhere.

The young man sitting on a partially-rotten park bench beneath the overhanging branches of a weeping willow doesn't flinch; he keeps staring at the small pool of murky, brackish water in front of him. The dark, washed-out hood of a pullover hides most of his pale face, leaving only a few strands of stringy, brown hair visible. He is sitting hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around his middle with his hands buried deep into the sweater's pockets as if he is cold. Tired, hollow eyes blink sluggishly, the only part of him that is moving at all. His breathing is shallow, not even deep enough to cause his chest to visibly rise or fall.

Time seems to stand still for a moment as whoever has spoken seems to wait for a reaction from the silent man.

There is none.

"I gotta tell ya," the voice comes again, "it's good to see you alive and kicking instead of depressed and brooding. I wouldn't know what to do with you if you didn't answer me…" The voice is laced with sarcasm, drifting closer to the tree as if the invisible speaker is slowly sauntering over to the bench. "… or acknowledge my enjoyable presence."

A flash of light, then there is suddenly a human figure hovering above the water. Arms spread wide at his side like a game show host welcoming his audience. He is wearing an expectant smile on his lips, as if waiting for applause. His stunningly white, spotless suit casts a reflection on the water and seems to glow in the bright afternoon sunlight. He looks down at the silent man and raises an almost disbelieving eyebrow when there is no reaction at all to his appearance.

"Come on, Sammy… Sam? Winchester?" He all but sneers the names, then tilts his head slightly, studying the other, a dangerous, yet playful glint sparkling in his eyes. "_Bitch_?"

Slowly, empty eyes crawl over to the floating man's brown leather shoes. They stay there, study the laces lazily, blink occasionally. He waits for a few beats, rolls his eyes in annoyance and gives an irritated sigh.

"You make talking to a brick wall look like a walk in the park, you know that?" Another sigh when the younger man doesn't move, just keeps staring. "You even in there?"

Suddenly the silent man's head jerks forward as if he is smacked in the back of his head. His body moves slightly with the force of the 'blow', but then simply rocks back to its original position. This time there is a reaction as he hunches his shoulders a little more, seems to curl into himself further. The other man on the water rolls his eyes, closes them for a moment, and then shakes his head slightly.

"Okay, so you don't wanna talk…" The man's eyes narrow dangerously. "Fine, write me a letter then!" He throws his hands in the air with a frustrated growl. "Why don't you start like this: 'Dear Gabriel, today I really feel like shit 'cause some asswhipe of an angel made me cry!'"

Again the man on the bench jerks slightly when something hits him in the side of his head and bounces off, falling right into his lap. His head moves down a fraction and it seems as if his eyes focus on the bright-pink diary complete with a small, golden heart-shaped lock and a tiny key dangling next to it. He keeps silent, just looking at it, which causes the angel to heave an exaggerated sigh.

"You surprise me, Sam, really. I've always figured you'd be more the girly type, I mean all that too long hair and the let's-talk-about-it-attitude... What about this then?"

A hand waves through the air and the diary changes, morphs into a worn, leather-bound journal. One the man on the bench knows very well.

"Come on, Sammy, open it, there's some great stuff in it, your daddy sure knew how to make the most trivial things sound interesting. Did you know that a wendigo can only eat meat? That a poltergeist is immune to the name of God?"

He leans forward, lowering his voice to a conversational tone, "Did you know that there are half a dozen ways to plot how to kill your demonic son? Without said son ever realizing it…"

Their eyes meet, pain and exhaustion gazing up at unconcealed smugness and self-satisfaction.

"Good, you _are_ in there…" The angel leans forward even more, gazing into tired eyes intently. "I need you out here, kid, we need to talk."

He watches how the other blinks slowly, focuses on him, and seems to realize for the first time that he isn't alone anymore. Recognition, closely followed by anger, flashes across weary features, before they settle into a helpless grimace of tired misery. And then, as if it takes too much energy to keep it on the grinning man's face, the younger lets his gaze drop back to the leather boots.

Something changes in the angel's expression, where there has been a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth the whole time, there is now a tightening of his lips and his eyes narrow.

"Okay, princess, you wanna play hard to get? Fine, I'm in."

He straightens, still standing on the water, his body language changing from good-natured to serious in a heartbeat.

"Enough napping, it's time to wake up. It's time to _fight_."

He studies the bowed head and seems to come to a conclusion.

"And I know just the arena for this—"

He snaps his fingers…

… and they are not in Kansas anymore.

The hooded man sways violently as he adjusts to the fact that he is now standing in the middle of a dark room. His body doesn't realize the difference between sitting and being upright fast enough for him to catch his balance and he stumbles, reflexively reaching out into the darkness to find something to steady himself with.

There is nothing.

He lists awkwardly to the side—and then goes down, landing on the floor with a surprised grunt. He is back on his feet the next instant, body automatically reacting, his earlier exhaustion forgotten as he scans the dark with wide eyes. It takes some time for them to adjust to the darkness of the place after the bright light on the clearing and he doesn't move besides cocking his head to the sight to listen to the silence around him. His arms are raised in front of him in a defensive posture, guarding his front, waiting for an attack that never comes.

"It's alive!"

He flinches at the sudden, triumphant shout and whirls around, facing a barely visible shadow that is once again floating a little over the ground. The figure moves slightly and the sound of clapping hands echoes through the room, followed by a teasing drawl.

"You know you had me worried there for a moment, kiddo, I was almost afraid you'd brood through all the fun. Welcome back to the world of the mentally challenged!"

Slowly the hunter drops his arms and while he loses the defensive stance he is still tense, eying his opponent wearily. "What do you want?"

It is the first time he speaks and his voice is low and scratchy, as if it hasn't been used in a long time. The other man studies his still hooded face for a moment, then starts moving toward him, floating on the air much as he had on the water. He navigates around something hidden in the dark with such ease it seems that he, unlike the hunter, can see just fine.

"I want to know what he told you." he says, walking toward the unsteady hunter.

"Who?"

"Kyriel."

The young man flinches back as if struck, the back of his legs bumping into something he can't see and he almost goes down again, just barely manages to catch his balance in time. His hectic movements finally dislodge the hood and strands of stringy, unruly hair fall into his eyes, hiding them more efficiently than the fabric ever had. He makes no move to brush the bangs away, just glares at the other from beneath them.

"Ask him then," he growls and reaches out behind him, letting his fingers brush across something solid. "He's your _brother_, not mine."

A smirk meets his glare.

"Weeeell, I could…"

Slowly, the angel lowers himself to the ground, is no longer floating. He studies the young hunter, cocking his head to the side while his eyes narrow.

"But I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Actually, it's more fun watching what he did to you."

His lips twist into a wide, mischievous grin and he points repeatedly at the taller hunter as he keeps talking.

"I want to know how he got through that Cro-Magnon skull of yours. Remember that lesson I tried to teach you?"

The younger man flinches again, though not as violently as before, and tries his best to look nonchalant. He isn't very successful but the other doesn't seem to care.

"You never really got it, I never got through to you and boy did I try…" He pauses for emphasis. "_Kyriel_ did. And I want to know how."

Dark eyes widen in alarm and the hunter takes a step back, his gaze darting across what little he can see of his surroundings. He remains silent, doesn't utter a sound. When he finally realizes that there is no escape he raises his chin in defiance and crosses his arms in front of his chest protectively before regarding the angel with a challenging stare.

All that earns him is an amused snicker. "Awww, come on, Sammy-boy, don't be like that, I'm sure he didn't tell you anything you didn't already know."

The 'boy's' shoulders tremble slightly and he drops his gaze, stares at the angel's hands before looking back up, unflinching.

"Shut up. Please… can't you just leave me alone?"

"No."

Silence follows as they stare at each other, waiting for _something_.

Nothing happens.

Finally the angel lets out a deep, almost suffering sigh and his face hardens for an instant, and then suddenly breaks into another of his amused grins. "Tell me something, Sam, do you even realize _where_ we are?"

A flick of his wrist and suddenly the room is illuminated by bright light. The taller man groans slightly and raises a hand reflexively to shield his eyes as he is forced to squint.

They are standing in a church with rows of wooden pews forming an aisle in the middle. The pews are untouched, arranged in straight lines, some of them decaying, others looking as good as new. The altar at the far side of the room is made of white marble, the left corner broken off and lying in pieces on the floor. A massive wooden cross is mounted to the wall behind the altar, but the model of Jesus is tilted to the side— it almost looks as if he is toppling off the cross and trapped in mid fall by the nails in his feet. It looks just wrong and the younger man winces when he sees it.

The high, stained-glass windows framing the aisle throw washed-out colours on the opposite walls creating the illusion of imaginary creatures chasing each other as the sun moves slowly across the wall. The large heavy wooden doors at the end of the aisle are closed, locked from the inside with a wooden beam that is nailed to either side of the door.

"I know you liked your stay here last time so I thought, what the hell give the guy a break and get him some place _safe_…"

Looking very pleased with himself the angel opens his arms and waves at their surroundings, as if inviting the squinting hunter to have a look around. He watches as the young man takes in the details for a moment, and before the hunter can say a word the angel points at something behind him, a weird, hostile glint flashing through his eyes.

"And look, big brother is here, too!"

His smile widens when the hunter turns slowly and looks.

As impressive as the cross and the doors are, they are not the most prominent feature of the high room: on the right side, beneath the windows and illuminated by a light that seems to come out of nowhere, hangs a picture. It shows a blond man looming over a hideous fallen creature. He uses the tip of a long, red pole to keep the monster on the ground while his other arm raises a sword behind his back, ready to strike, to _kill_. White wings stretch from his back and his right foot is pushing the creature down, poised directly in the open mouth of his adversary. The horned creature is writhing beneath him, trying to get out of his hold, one of its clawed hands raised, swinging a mace in defence of the sword. It is snarling up at the man in with a hateful sneer, but, pinned to the floor by the foot and the pole, it doesn't have a chance to get up. It is overpowered.

In short, the picture shows the archangel Michael killing the Devil, Lucifer.

The shaggy-haired man's eyes are drawn to the picture immediately and he stumbles back from it, almost trips over the row of chairs behind him in his haste to get some distance between him and the painting. His hands start shaking uncontrollably and he whirls around, eyes darting around the room frantically, as if looking for something. Whatever it is he doesn't seem to find it, after a thorough scan of the hall he wraps his arms around his middle and turns back to the angel, tries to glare at him but fails, causing the smaller man to answer with a mocking grin.

"Feels good to be back here, doesn't it?"

"Why did you bring me here?" The hunter doesn't quite manage to keep the shiver out of his voice, tries too hard for casual.

The other feigns surprise, cocks his head to the side. "You really have to ask that? I need to protect them—" He leans closer as if sharing a secret and whispers, "—from you."

The angel grins when the dark-haired man backs away and he follows him, step for step. "Apparently just being close to you kills them, so you should be as far away as possible from _good_ people. Wouldn't you agree? Let's lock the _monster_ up in a cage so that everybody is safe and sound and they can live happily ever after. That's what you want, isn't it? That's what you secretly dream about!"

"Shut up…" The words are choked, barely audible.

He doesn't, still following the retreating figure, cornering him with words he spits at him, faster and faster. "I know that's what you're thinking, Sam, I know for a fact that's the only thing you can think about right now. Cause it's true."

They reach the wall and have to stop. Pained, dark eyes flick around, searching for away out, away from the hard gaze that is bearing down on them. They find none and the miserable expression turns into one of despair as a broken whisper ghosts across the distance between them. "Is it?"

The room falls silent, they don't move, just look at each other, one standing straight and tall, the other hunching into himself, becoming smaller and smaller, almost _too_ small for a man his size.

"You tell me." The voice is hard, but still it carries a note of sympathy.

The broken man seems to search for something in the angel's face, looks at him as if he has the answer to the most important question of his life, but the angel stays silent, only watching as the broad shoulders slump. The young man slowly steps away from the angel. "Just… leave me alone."

The angel snorts at that, shakes his head as the man backs off a step. "Sure, I could do that, leave you here until the world forgets about you and you can finally disappear off its face… " He watches how the shoulders relax for a fraction before they tense up again as he adds, "…but I won't."

_Why not?_ The question is clearly visible on the young hunter's face and even though he doesn't say a word it hangs heavily between them. There is no answer and the young man becomes agitated, unclenches his hands a few times, pulls a shaky breath, blinks repeatedly. His voice is soft when he finally speaks, a mere whisper at the beginning which gradually gets stronger.

"Don't you see… what I've done, the choices I've made… I've killed people, Gabriel, they _died_ because of me! I _should_ be locked up! This is what I deserve!"

If he has expected sympathy for his outburst then he is disappointed, the angel simply studies him before giving him a look one might have expected from a teacher whose student has finally been able to solve a difficult puzzle. He even claps his hands.

"You're getting angry… Finally! Good, that's good, Sam, that's really good!"

"Good?" The incredulous exclamation is accompanied by an utterly dumbfounded expression. "I get mad and people _die_, Gabriel! Don't you get that?"

The angel shrugs it off, just like that, obviously not taking the young hunter's desperation seriously.

"So what? You aren't allowed to get _angry_? You have to suck it up and sink it down? Nobody can do that forever, Sam, not you, not your brother, not even your father."

The young man takes a deep breath, looking away for a moment, then back, determination written all over his face. "I have to, Gabriel, I _have_ to or people I care about die." His voice grows stronger. "I've learned that lesson, I won't make that mistake again."

"Man, they really did a number on you…"

The angel shakes his head almost sadly and takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly.

"Okay, Sam, let's do this your way..."

He leans back against the altar behind him, crosses his arms in front of his chest and makes a show of getting comfortable on the dusty surface. The other watches with a mix of fascination and barely concealed disbelief how he literally pulls a bar of chocolate out of thin air and rips the cover off with his teeth, then begins to munch on it with pleasure. He catches the wary gaze and cocks his head at it, then grins widely, holding the half-eaten candy out.

"Want some?"

A slight shake of the head is the only answer and he merely shrugs, finishing the bar and dropping the plastic wrapping to the floor. A glass of what looks like red whine appears next to him and he raises it in a mock toast, taking a sip of it before focusing his attention on his companion.

"Okay, tell me something, Sam-who'd you kill? Who is dead because of you?" He makes it sound like a casual question despite its serious content, as if he is talking about the weather.

The hunter stares at him incredulously, before shaking his head slightly and turning away from him with a low growl. "Shut up…"

"Ah, no no no, you won't get away that easily…" The angel jumps up from the altar and starts stalking down the aisle, slowly advancing on the row where the younger man is leaning tiredly against a chair, his back turned to the smaller man. "Come on, Sam, let's hear it, start _talking_ already, who did you kill?"

The man's jaws works as he fights to keep silent and the angel rolls his eyes, studying the tense shoulders for a moment. "Okay, I'll start: Jessica. Did you kill her?"

The shoulders flinch visibly and there is a quiet gasp, then the shaggy head lifts slightly, but the young man doesn't turn.

"You know, if you ask me, I think it really was your fault. I mean, come on, you had visions about her death for days before she died so you _could_ have saved her."

He stops briefly, taking in how the body in front of him turns completely rigid.

"You know what you should have done? You should have gone back to her and told her about how you were dreaming about her burning on the ceiling, just like your mother."

Fists start to clench and unclench at the hunter's side while his breathing becomes deliberately deeper as he fights for control. The shorter man seems oblivious to the signs of distress, keeps talking, voice hardening to an angry snarl.

"Because you_ knew_ from the start that this was not just a nightmare, Sam. You _knew_, even then, that you were tainted with blood that gave you visions. Because dreaming of your girl dying in a fire _just like your mother_ a few days before the anniversary of her death is a sure sign that every shrink worth his money would identify as demonic visions the moment you told them!"

He is yelling at the end of his tirade, his accusing voice echoing through the high hall and bouncing off the walls. His steps take him closer and closer to the other man whose shoulders have started trembling with barely suppressed rage. And still the angel doesn't stop neither his approach nor his words.

"Tell me, Sam, how did it feel to set her on fire? Wait, how did you get her up there in the first place? Didn't she struggle a lot? Did she cry? Did you have to tie her to the ceiling or did she just stay pu—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

His handsome face twisted into a grimace of sheer fury the hunter whirls around in a flash, swinging a fist that isn't shaking anymore at the point where the other's head has been only a moment ago. The punch meets empty air, causing the enraged man to sway before he finds his balance again, his wild gaze searching the church for his tormentor.

"Why should I? You're just too much fun to play with!"

He finally spots the angel standing on the altar at the far wall, looking down at him. The hunter glares back, narrowing his eyes in anger at the amused grin that starts to spread over the other's lips. He opens his mouth to say something, but the shorter man is already talking again, giving him an almost proud smile.

"You know what, I'm impressed with you, Sam, how you've managed to fool everyone into thinking you had nothing to do with her death is a really impressing feat. You should be proud of yourself! Way to go, tiger—"

"What the hell do you know about anything?" the hunter snarls at him, clearly getting agitated at the taunts.

The angel shrugs, casually brushing the question off. "Nothing. Everything. Fact is, you killed her, Sammy." He watches the furious hunter for a moment, judging, then adds as an afterthought, "Maybe you even wanted that, huh? Get rid of that life, the one you've always felt you didn't fit in…"

The hunter's eyes grow wide, incredulous. "I wanted normal, I _wanted_ her! She was what made me fit in—"

"—and she was what made you see, _every single day_, that you could never have it, that life of picket fences and happy families. You looked at her, and you knew normal was never going to happen for you!" The angel is shouting at that point, fixing the younger man with an accusing glare. "You couldn't stand that… that constant reminder of just how damaged you were, how _tainted_… so you got rid of it!"

"NO! She loved me! And I loved her—" He runs a nervous hand through his hair and winces when his opponent cuts him off again.

"If you had loved her you wouldn't have left her!"

"I wasn't leaving her! I was coming back!" The man's voice is rising again, taking on a slightly desperate note. He doesn't seem to realize that the angel is watching him closely, noting his every wince and denial, almost as if he is waiting for something. His reproachful voice doesn't change though; if possible it gets even harder, more aggressive.

"No, Sam, you were running _away_ from her at the first opportunity you got! Why don't you just admit it?"

'Cause it's not true—" He stutters to a stop when the angel suddenly raises his hand in the air in a typical stop-it gesture and cocks his head to the side, studying the hunter with an arrogant smile.

"I don't even hate to tell you this, but it is."

Obviously still stunned by the sudden interruption the hunter just stares at him for a moment, then huffs almost disbelievingly and turns his back on the other man, growling under his breath. "Bite me!"

His words cause the angel to laugh out loud. "You really want me to? Cause, you know, I could…"

The hunter suddenly whirls around, yelling. "I want you to shut up and let me go!"

The angel isn't impressed at all at the outburst, he merely watches him with an innocent _who, me?_ expression. "I'm not keeping you here, _you_ don't want to leave, Sam. _You_ think they are safe from you if you are locked up in this shack!" He leans forward, lowering his voice. "And we both know Jessica would agree."

"No! You didn't know her. She loved me... she... she…" His voice fails him and he chokes on the words, losing the fight against his emotions.

"—died because of you." The angel supplies helpfully, adding the next words with a sad smile, "You killed her!"

"I didn't kill her!" The anguished shout reverberates through the high hall, but the angel just laughs at it, shaking his head as if talking to a disturbed child.

"Oh, but you did, Sammy-boy, you killed Jessica, you killed your precious girlfriend!"

"No!"

Chest heaving, the younger man stares helplessly, his body tensing as if he is preparing to leap over the rows of seat between them to stop the gloating man. They stare at each other, one of them fuming while the other does nothing to hide his obvious satisfaction at the misery he is inflicting. And he doesn't stop.

"But you could have saved her."

Unable to reach his tormentor, the hunter suddenly moves, kicking the chair in front of him while a furious outcry fights it way out of his throat.

"I didn't know! I didn't _know_, okay? I thought they were just dreams, I was scared something would happen to her, sure, because I loved her—but I didn't know they were visions! I didn't kill her!"

A second chair goes flying away from him, crashing into the first row with so much force that the heavy wooden seats scrape over the floor. Again there is a long moment of silence in which the younger man stares off into space, breathing heavily, while the other watches him, not moving, carefully studying him.

"I bet you never said that out loud and _believed_ it, did you?" For the first time the angel's voice is low, sympathetic. "How does it feel?"

There is no sound to be heard but the younger man seems to deflate at those words. He stumbles forward, catches himself on the back of one of the chairs and sinks down on one of the rotten seats. He starts trembling, hard, wraps his arms around his middle and hunches over, hiding his face behind long strands of stringy hair.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He sounds as if he is in pain, his question a weak, breathless whisper he has to fight to get across his lips.

Again there is a flutter of sympathy on the angel's face and he suddenly appears at the far side of the pew the broken man is huddling in. His voice is just as low this time but the words lose nothing of their insistence.

"Because you need to _wake up_, Sam." He slowly walks closer. "This _infection_ has been festering inside you since the day she died, you have to cut it out." He sits down on the back of a chair in the middle of the row, balances carefully on it. "You have to get over it."

A choked off sob, followed by more shivering. "But she still died because of _me_, if I hadn't been there she—"

"—and if not for Yellow Eyes, and if not for your mother's deal, if not for the angels, if not for the demons—I hear you, Sam..." He breaks off, watches how a shaky hand brushes back some strands. His voice softens a bit. "Let's face it; you're a _factor_, not the cause. And it's about time you get that into your head."

Some of the strands fall to the side as the head turns slightly and suspiciously bright eyes blink up at him tiredly. "It hurts…"

The angel nods slowly, smiles almost sadly at him. "I suppose it does…" He stops for a moment and thinks about it, takes in the hunter's weary gaze and the dejected slump of his shoulders. His tone is sincere when he adds, "Of course it hurts, Sam, if it didn't you wouldn't be human."

The hunter eyes him suspiciously, seems confused by the sympathetic words, as if he cannot believe they are coming from the angel. He doesn't seem to be able to react for a moment, then shrugs slowly, turning his head back and staring numbly at the back of the seat in front of him. "Whatever…"

The angel watches, doesn't move, doesn't say anything. He sighs, tiredly.

And then, as if a switch has been flipped, he drops his compassionate smile and the sneer is back. "Right, back to the monster issue. Forgive me, what was I thinking, you can't talk sense to a lowly creature…" He claps his hands and straightens, the unexpected movement making the hunter jump slightly in surprise. "As _entertaining_ as this might have been, I'm afraid I have to be going now; there are some lessons I have to teach…"

The hunter's head snaps up at that and he turns slightly, watching how the angel moves away from him. A surprised frown appears on his face and he looks as if he might say something. After a moment he decides to stay quiet and leans back, arms crossed in front of him as his gaze slowly wanders down to the black wood of the chairs. When the angel finally turns to look at him the younger man seems oblivious to anything but the furniture next to him.

"You go on and wallow in your misery or whatever it is you're doing. I'm leaving. For a while, anyway… Have fun!" The angel steps over to the stone table but stops suddenly, as if he remembers something. He turns back, adding with a cruel smile, "In case you get thirsty, how about a bottle of _holy _water, Sam?"

His cheery voice is still echoing through the church even after he disappears in a flash of bright light, leaving the hunter to stare at a plastic bottle that has materialized in the middle of the stone table. He turns slowly, taking in the empty church, his gaze lingering fearfully on the painting next to him before he finally slumps forward and curls in on himself. His lost, tired voice is almost drowned out by the silence.

"I'm sorry..."


End file.
